


Trace the patterns

by NineMagicks



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Awkward Flirting, Carry On Countdown (Simon Snow), Carry On Countdown 2019, Dogs, First Meetings, M/M, Walking, angry goose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 01:28:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21659173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NineMagicks/pseuds/NineMagicks
Summary: Simon walks the same way home from work every day, with his flatmate's dog for company. He's never said a word to the good looking man he's been walking past for months, but maybe it's about time he did? Or perhaps something will happen that'll finally make their meeting inevitable... (featuring an irate goose, muddy pond water, and a dog named Jim.)
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 31
Kudos: 261
Collections: Carry On Countdown 2019





	Trace the patterns

**Author's Note:**

> This story is an AU fic in response to the Carry On Countdown prompt #9: Pattern. :) Hope you like it.

**SIMON**

I walk the same way home from work every day.

Penny meets me at the staff entrance with her dog so she can hand him over and get going to her teaching job. I work the night shift at a hotel and she's gone all day, so we only really see each other for ten minutes in the morning, and a few hours at the weekend. (She does paperwork on Saturdays. She's always busy.) It's about a twenty minute walk from here to home, and I'll take Jim out again later, before I pass out tonight. He loves his walks in the park. It's part of our pattern.

I love our walks, too.

It's the only chance I get to see _him_.

He's not there every day. I've been trying to work out his pattern for the past few months, but it seems random. Maybe he works odd hours and can only go to the park when he finds time? But he must take his dog out every day. It's a bloody big dog. I bet it'd get bored, stuck inside a house all the time.

Penny says _I'm_ a bit like a dog. I don't know if I should be offended.

Anyway, I've never spoken to him. The bloke with the dog. (Dog bloke?) Not really. We said hi once - that was the last time I saw him, actually. I went to wave back and got tangled up in Jim's lead. By the time I picked myself up out of the grass, he'd gone.

That was over a week ago. Maybe he doesn't go to the park anymore? Maybe his dog didn't like it.

Still, I better go that way and check. Just in case.

**BAZ**

This park is peaceful of a morning. I always miss it when I have to go back to Hampshire. My mad thing of a dog loves it here, too - he can run free for an hour, chasing squirrels and ripping up leaves. Sometimes he gets into one of the bins and I have to tempt him out with a biscuit, but usually he's a very good boy.

It's slightly out of my way to come here. There's a field much closer to my apartment building that would make for a perfectly serviceable walk, but there's something about this park that's wild and welcoming.

Plus, if I don't make the trip, I won't see _him -_ the young man with the scruffy little dog. He's always hunched over, kicking at pebbles and talking to it like they're a couple of old men heading down the pub to play a game of darts. We've barely exchanged a word in all the months we've been walking by each other, though I did find the courage to say hello last time I was here. He barely squawked out a reply before tripping over his dog. (I'm quite sure he calls it _Jim_. What on earth is that about?)

He's always in the park at the same time of a morning, come what may, weather be damned. (Rarely, if ever, is he appropriately dressed for said weather.) I've been in Hampshire for the past week, so I hope he's still following his usual pattern. He might even be there already - sometimes he must be running early, and I pass him as he's leaving through the gate. I ought to wait around the next time that happens and see which way he walks.

Not that I'd ever work up the gall to follow him or ask where he's going.

Come on, then, you great lolloping thing - we'd best get walking.

**SIMON**

_He's here._

I see him by the pond. His big, fluffy black hound (seriously, it's full-on Baskerville) is sniffing a water lily. A goose goes waddling over to give it a piece of his mind, and even though that dog is maybe ten times the goose's size, it runs off and hides behind the bloke's legs.

I wish I knew his name. I can't keep calling him _dog bloke_ in my head.

Jim's ears are sticking up. He's watching the goose flap its wings at the big black dog, and the man is struggling to separate the two of them. (Should I go over and help?)

Fuck it. I'll never be able to live with myself if I let him get mauled by a goose.

I go over and shout hello, but I don't think he hears me. He's trying to get his dog back on its lead, but it's squirming all over the place, afraid of the goose.

I'm almost there when Jim gets a bit excited and jumps forward - his lead jerks out of my hand and I slip in the mud. I'm worried he'll drag me all the way into the pond, so I let go and go flying into dog bloke, instead. We both fall over and I land on my back in the mud, with my head on his legs.

Shit.

This is _not_ how I wanted today to go.

**BAZ**

I'm in the wet grass with mud in my eyes, my feet tangled up in the lead.

The young man with the scruffy dog is in my lap, having barrelled into me at fifty miles an hour, his tatty excuse for a companion sweeping the world from beneath my feet as it went full-tilt for the goose. I pull my hair out of my eyes to see the end result - the disgruntled greylag is settling on the pond, still honking its woes to the world, and my dog is rolling around with the other one. They're both yapping like excitable idiots. If I weren't so embarrassed, I might find it sweet.

The young man sits up and says sorry approximately three hundred times. He has curly hair, blue eyes, and a scattering of moles on his face that form a pattern all of their own making.

He's beautiful, looking at me like that, with his mouth hanging open.

I tuck my hair behind my ears and hold out a hand.

**SIMON**

"I'm terribly sorry about that."

He's giving me his hand, so I take it. (It's only polite.) We stand up and I try to knock some of the mud from my knees, but I only really succeed in smearing it further up my trouser legs. This close, I can see how much taller he is than me - a few inches, at least. He's willowy. Long black hair and really nice grey eyes. I don't think I've seen anyone with grey eyes before. Not up close like this, anyway.

I take a step back. Jim's playing this crazy game with the other dog, and he keeps tripping over his lead. He'll come back when I call him, but it's pretty nice seeing him like this, having fun. Penny's got a cat called Solitude and that's damn near all she likes. Jim only really gets to play when he's with me, and I like that he's happy. The other dog's massive but seems really gentle.

"S'not your fault," I say, because the man's looking at me like he expects a response. He's about my age, I reckon. He's wearing a shirt that's got this funny pattern all over it - I think it's some kind of flower. "I'm Simon. Simon Snow. I see you here a lot."

He nods. His cheeks are pink. It was a bit frosty this morning, so maybe he's cold.

"I'm Baz."

"Baz?"

"Yes."

"That's your name?"

"Yes."

"Cool. What's your dog's name?"

They both come bounding over when I ask this, like they know we're about to start talking about them. The big dog sits down by Baz's feet and looks up at him, tongue hanging out. Jim jumps up at me and adds to the muddy patterns running up my trousers.

"Lumi," Baz says.

"Loomy?"

"Yes."

"What's that mean?"

I'm asking about his dog because so far, it's the only thing I definitely know we've got in common. That we're both dog people. I don't know the first thing about Baz, but I can tell he loves his dog.

"It's short for Lumière."

"That's French, yeah?"

"Yes."

"Why you'd call him that?"

I wonder what kind of dog Lumi is. If he were my dog I'd call him Sirius. Or THE GRIM, in all capitals.

Baz crouches down and attaches the lead to Lumi's collar.

"He's my light."

He doesn't look at me when he says it.

** BAZ **

I turn my head to look at the pond. My heart's beating a mile a minute.

Lumi, the soft, silly lump, sits himself down on Simon's feet and gives him a big, dopey smile.

There's no resisting that face. I've lived with it for three years now, and as far as I'm concerned, it's the face that lost me the war.  At first, when he was dumped in my lap one Christmas morning, I wanted nothing more than to be rid of him. Now there's nothing I wouldn't do for this impossible creature.

Simon is kneeling in the mud, ruining what may once have been salvageable about his attire. It's hard to keep my eyes off him - his face in profile, his fingers, the mole under his eye. He runs his hands over Lumi's head and back, ruffling his curls of black fur. I've thought about this happening many times - about the handsome young man coming over to meet my dog - but I wasn't expecting it to go quite like this. With mud and mad geese and me, blushing like a madman.

I cough to clear my throat. Simon looks up at me and my stomach twists.  


"What's _your_ dog's name?"

I already know it's Jim, but I need to hear him say it. (See if he realises how ridiculous it sounds.)

"Jim," he says, clear as day. In response to his name, Jim walks over to me, tail whacking back and forth between his stumpy legs. "He's my flatmate's, really, but I walk him every day."

"Might I ask why he has an old man's name?"

Simon looks up at me, surprised. "Oh, right. I s'pose it does sound a bit weird. His full name's Jim Moriarty. Do you know _Sherlock_?"

There's a lot to unpack here. The idea that a dog might have any use for a _full name_ astounds me. Also, Simon seems genuinely curious as to whether or not I, as an inhabitant of the modern world, have ever heard of Sherlock Holmes. Even if I hadn't seen the BBC programme, surely he might think I'd read the books? Or at least _heard_ of them? By the way he's staring up at me, with his wide eyes and creased forehead, I'd say not.

"I do know _Sherlock_ ," I reply slowly. "That's an interesting name for a dog."

"It suits him," he says, ruffling Jim's head and standing up before me. "He's diabolical."

"I see."

I don't see. Not at all. (But I'd like to.)  


Simon smooths his hands down the front of his jacket. He retrieves Jim's lead and wraps it firmly around his knuckles. All of the signs point to our parting now, and yet...

And yet, I don't want to.

Not right away.  


Perhaps we could talk for another minute?  


** SIMON **

"What kind of dog is Jim?"

We've started walking along the path, giving the goose all the space it wants. (It's still honking at us from the pond.) (Seriously mate, what's your fucking problem?)

Baz doesn't usually come this way - he normally leaves through the park's north gate - but I'm not complaining.

I'm trying really hard not to say something stupid and honestly, it takes a lot of effort. How do people manage it?

"I don't know. He's all sorts, really. Penny - my flatmate - got him from the pound. _Adopt don't shop_ , and all that."

"Ah."

We've both given them a lot of lead. They're trotting next to each other like they go way back, like they're two parts of the same pattern.

"What's Lumi?"

"He's a Newfoundland. Not from a shelter, I'm afraid. He was a Christmas present from my father a few years ago."

I reckon if Lumi accidentally sat on Jim, he'd be flat as a pancake.

"He's great," I say. "Really cool. Bet he eats a lot."

 _I_ eat a lot.

Maybe I am a bit like a dog?

"He's a bottomless pit. All he does is chew things he shouldn't, and lark about like a toddler in a toy shop."

I laugh at that. My laugh's strange - I get weird looks on the bus if I'm watching a funny YouTube video - but Baz looks pleased. I can see him smiling out of the corner of my eye. I was worried he'd be angry at me for knocking him over, but he seems fine. He hasn't called me an idiot and run off, at least. (All right, so my benchmark for meeting new people is low.)

We're almost at the park gate now, so I guess we'll have to stop talking soon.

I wonder if he'll be in the park again tomorrow? It's Saturday so I don't have to work tonight, but he doesn't know that.

**BAZ**

"So, are you on your way anywhere nice?"

It's not the most graceful delaying tactic, but it's all I can think of. Lumi has started pulling me in the direction of home, and Jim wants to follow. Usually we complete an entire lap of the park and go out through the other gate, but perhaps Simon hasn't noticed that little pattern of ours.

"Just going home," he says. We've stopped in the middle of the pavement. We're both doing that foolish thing where we look down, then up, then away and around again - anywhere but at each other, at the same time. "I work nights and my flatmate brings Jim to my work, then I take him home."

That's infuriatingly sweet. I hate it. (I love it.)

"Where do you work?"

"At a hotel. I just cover the reception desk. Take extra towels to people, answer drunk phone calls, that sort of thing."

Jim tries to jump up at me. Simon holds him back and distracts him with something crunchy from his pocket.

"Sorry. He likes you."

I reach down and ruffle the scruffy sod's head. My best bet concerning Jim Moriarty's lineage would be some sort of collie crossed with a border terrier. (Though those stubby little legs are suspiciously dachshund.)

"Where are you off to?"

He asks casually, like he couldn't care less what I say. I could lie and make myself sound interesting, but I won't.

"I'm heading home myself. I bring Lumière out of a morning before I start work. I'm a translator and mostly work from home, so the park is a good excuse to get out and about."

I think that Simon Snow is the excuse I have for always coming here, instead of going to the field near home, but I don't say that.

We're both leaving and the door's wide open for me to ask him out for breakfast, but I don't.  


I just look at him like an idiot. (He's beautiful.) (Does he know that?)

He looks back.

**SIMON**

Baz is a translator. I wonder what languages he speaks?

I should ask him if he wants to get coffee - there's this place me and Jim stop at down the road and the owner waits on the doorstep for us - but I don't.

We do this really awkward goodbye thing. (Why are we shaking hands?)

Then he's walking down the road with Lumi and I'm going the other way with Jim.

"See you tomorrow?" I shout, and I don't know why I do it. He probably won't even turn around. Maybe he won't hear.

"Sure," he says, and - is that? Yep, it is. Another smile.

And maybe this is the start of a new pattern. Me and him, talking to each other in the park.

I'd be all right with that.

* * *

**SUNDAY MORNING**

* * *

**SIMON**

I'm half-convinced Baz won't even _be_ there this morning. Jim's straining on his lead like he can't wait to get going, and it takes everything in me to not go sprinting off down the road with him. (Yeah, I'm definitely starting to think Penny was onto something with that dog comparison...)

It's weird walking to the park from home. Penny usually takes Jim out on Sunday mornings, but I volunteered today and she seemed suspicious. I know the nice old bloke opens the coffee shop early at the weekend, so we go that way and I tie Jim up outside while I pop in for a hot drink.

I put a clean t-shirt on this morning, and my nice pair of jeans. Not that you can tell - it's chilly, so I shoved a baggy hoodie over the top. It messed up my hair but it never looks good, even when I try to style it with Penny's jars of mystery hair stuff. I guess I wanted to _feel_ good, more than look good. (Would Baz notice if I looked good?)

Jim races ahead of me through the park gate. I nearly go flying, trying to keep hold of his lead. I unfasten it and he goes galloping off up the path. I walk behind and sip my coffee.

I'm nervous. Why?

I wish I had something to eat. (Food's never scary.)

This is stupid.

**BAZ**

I see Simon before he sees me. Actually, that's incorrect - I see his bloody menace of a dog as it comes storming up the path, nearly sweeping my legs from under me and depositing me in the grass for the second day in a row. Lumière collides with him and the two idiots go splashing into the pond at a great rate of knots. (I'm going to have to spend all afternoon washing the mud out of him, which is fantastic.)

Simon comes jogging after Jim, curls flying around his face, a cup clutched in his hand. He says hello to me and stands breathlessly at my side as we watch our dogs swim in frantic circles around each other. They make pretty patterns in the water. It's a mess.

"Hold this a sec? I'll go get them."

"What? Simon, wait-"

"No, it's fine, I have to do this at least once a week."

" _Once a week?_ Snow, really, I don't think-"

He's handing me his coffee and pulling his hoodie over his head before I can mount much more of a protest. I have to turn away because his t-shirt rides up and for a moment, I see constellations of freckles and moles on his back.

Then he's running into the pond.

At seven o' clock on a Sunday morning.

In November.

I hold my breath. I reach into my pocket so I might do something equally reckless with what I'll find in there. (A pen.)  


There's a terrific splash as Jim interprets Simon's presence as the beginnings of a very fun game, and his tail starts smacking the water as hard as he can manage.

**SIMON**

It's a good job Lumi is a soft sort of dog. I'd stand no chance against him otherwise.

It takes about twenty minutes, but I manage to get both of them to follow me out of the pond and back onto dry land.

Baz is standing there, cheeks pink, holding my coffee. He reaches out for Lumi's lead and then we're both staring at each other like we did yesterday. He gives me my drink back and I think he's about to say something, but then Lumi shakes his coat and we're both _soaked_ with muddy pond water.

**BAZ**

My dog is trying to drown me. It's the only explanation.

I'm drenched from head to toe, and so is Simon. We stare at each other in shock and confusion, then we're both doubled over with laughter.

I don't recall the last time I laughed like this.

We start walking down the path to the park gate, both of us wet from head to toe. Our dogs bark in chorus between us, unaware of the chaos they've caused.

**SIMON**

"You ought to get into dry clothes before you catch your death," Baz says. We're standing in the middle of the pavement, just like yesterday, looking at each other again. There's a bit of mud splashed on his face in a pattern - it runs down his chin and drips on his coat.

"Yeah, you too," I say, still laughing.

It's not exactly how I wanted this morning to go, but it's all right. At least Jim had a good time.

"Try again tomorrow?" he asks, and I say yeah, definitely, see you then.

Then he's walking away from me and I'm watching him go.

I'm halfway down the street to our flat when I notice the writing on my coffee cup.

Baz has written his name and a phone number. The numbers all loop together in a pattern, and I have to stop and think about how pretty his handwriting is.

Jim sits on my foot and looks up at me with his big eyes. (He thinks I'm angry with him for the pond.) (I'm not. It got me Baz's number, what's so bad about that?)

And I don't know if this means I should've chased him down the street, of if he expects me to wait until tomorrow, or if I should call him as soon as I get in. I'm clueless when it comes to this sort of stuff. Maybe I should ask Penny?

First things first, I really need to change my pants. Every part of me is soaked.

* * *

**SUNDAY NIGHT**

* * *

**SIMON**

When I get in I sleep 'til about five, then at seven o' clock, pick up my phone.

Me and Penny were curled up on the sofa after I woke, watching _Big Hero 6_ and combing the knots out of Jim. (Solitude _hates_ being brushed.) (Like, she'll turn you into a scratching post if you try.)

"What's wrong, Simon? You're all twitchy."

"Sorry. Had a weird morning."

"You've stress-eaten half a bakewell tart."

"Sorry, Penny. I'll buy you another one."

"Maybe you caught a cold this morning. Or pneumonia. You've got to stop jumping in the pond after him, Simon - he thinks it's a game."

I can't tell her my stomach feels like it's on fire, thinking about Baz, soaking wet in the park. About his name on the cup. (I didn't throw it away. It's sitting on my bedside table.) (I'm such a loser.)

"Why don't you go and have a lie down? You've got to work all night," she says. "I'll bring you a cup of tea."

That sounds like a good excuse to shut myself in my room and call Baz. I saved his number in my phone as soon as I got back this morning, but then spent about an hour trying to decide if he'd given it to me because he wanted me to call him, or if he expects a text. I don't know. I'm crap at this stuff. I haven't gone out with anyone for years, not since Agatha - and never with a bloke. I'm not even sure if that's what he meant by it. What if he's just being friendly? Maybe he writes his name on everyone's coffee cup. _My dog likes your dog and they just shook half a pond over us, so let's be friends._ That sort of thing.

I'm stalling. I know I am.

I flop down onto my bed and find his name in my phone. Jim pushes the door open with his nose and climbs up onto the bed. (Penny says he's not allowed on the furniture but I never push him off.) He lies there with his head on my legs, looking up at me for moral support, and it's the last bit of courage I need. (If I pretend I'm doing this for Jim, I might actually go through with it.)

The phone rings three times - long enough for me to panic about Baz not answering an unknown number, and oh shit, maybe I _should_ have sent a text first? - and then he picks up.

"Hello?" he says, and his voice makes me feel funny. I'm glad I'm already lying down.

"Hi. It's Simon. From the drowning? In the park."

He laughs against my ear and I think I've been an idiot, looking at him for months and never talking to him.

"Hello Simon, from the drowning in the park. I was worried you weren't going to call."

"Been working up the nerve, haven't I?" I hear myself laugh. I'm dead anxious. I hold the phone against my left ear and pull a notebook and pen off the bedside table. I start scribbling patterns between the lines, trying to think of clever things to say.

"Well, I'm glad you did."

"Me too."

"How's Jim?" he asks. I can hear something high-pitched in the background - a whining sound. And something else - is that a _goose_? "I'm afraid Lumière is most put-out that I'm talking to you. He's not used to sharing my attentions with anybody else."

"Jim's here, too - he's lying on my legs. Took ages to get him clean. I got him in the bath but I reckon he thought we were reenacting the pond situation, and he started running all over the bathroom, splashing everything with water. My flatmate went spare."

Baz laughs again and I know I haven't been an idiot. Not really. Maybe things happen when they're supposed to. (When your dog's behaved like a maniac and you end up shivering in a park with the handsome bloke you've been looking at for months without knowing what to say.) (Something like that.)  


"I, too, had quite the experience getting Lumi clean. He's still resentful. There'll have to be extra treats tonight, I think, before he forgives me. Will you be in the park in the morning, or are you giving ponds a wide berth for the foreseeable future?"

I like his voice. The way he says things. I could listen to him all night.

Penny comes into my room with tea. She looks at me funny when she sees I'm on the phone, and I wait until she's gone again before answering Baz's question. (She takes her bloody time about it, because she's being nosy.)  


"Uh, yeah, I'll be there tomorrow. Got work tonight so we'll be walking back the usual way, about seven. Might have to invest in a new lead at some point, though. Jim's stretched his so much it's ready to snap."

"I shall see you there then, Snow, if you're not completely convinced my dog's a bad influence?"

I hear Lumi whine again. Jim's ears are sticking up like radar dishes, listening to me laugh. "Nah, he's great. Yeah, definitely see you there."

"Excellent." There's a pause and I think Baz might be a bit nervous, too. "You mentioned you work nights. What time do you start?"

"Ten," I reply, stretching and checking the time. "I better get ready in a bit, actually."

"Did you get some sleep?"

"Yeah, quite a lot. Slept 'til five."

"And you work until seven?"

"Half past six."

"I see. Well..." He draws the word out. (Classic delaying tactic. I know it well.) "If you wouldn't mind, perhaps I could call you when you're on your way? Keep you company on your walk, or so to speak. If you'd like."

Something bursts open in my chest, something I didn't even know was there.  


"Yeah. Yeah, that'd be great. I'll text you when I'm heading out."

"Very good. Speak to you later, then, Snow. Say hello to Jim for me."

I laugh. (Again! What's he _doing_ to me?) I reach down to stroke Jim's head - his tongue's hanging out and he's dribbling a bit, but that's all right. He's a good boy.

"Will do. Give Lumi a high five from me."

"A high five? You want me to _high five_ my dog?"

"Yeah, it's a trick - can't he do it? You can teach him." Then I just blurt it out, because why the fuck not? We nearly _drowned_ today. "I can teach him. I'll show you."

Baz says that sounds like a plan, then we go through a few rounds of awkward goodbyes like earlier. (Luckily we can't shake hands over the phone.) Then the call ends and I'm left dazed on my bed, looking up at the ceiling.

I'm not going to be concentrating on _anything_ tonight. It's going to be a disappointed hotel guest who calls the front desk and gets my useless arse on the other end of the line.  


I bounce around the room, getting ready for work. I never really _want_ to go to the hotel - I'm trying to get moved off the night shift onto days, so I can take an evening college course and not be a complete zombie - but if it gets me one step closer to seeing Baz again, I'm up for it. Penny's tea is cold before I remember it's there, but I drink it anyway.

Everything feels good. Everything feels new.

I pull on my coat and grab Jim's lead - we've got time for a quick walk before work.

We go down the steps and start off along the pavement - he's excited enough that he's walking _me_ , instead of the other way round - and in my pocket, I keep my hand wrapped around my phone. I don't think I can wait another hour, and maybe that makes this the start of a new pattern - one where I try to hold off on calling Baz, and give in every time.

And then sometimes he'll call me back.

And we'll meet in the park.

And one day I'll get the guts to take him to the coffee shop. (There are scones.) (Baz looks like the scone type.)  


And then...well. We'll see.

My phone lights up in my hand. Baz is calling me, and I break out into a grin. 

"Hi."

"Hi. Hello. I _am_ sorry, Snow. I just realised I couldn't possibly wait a moment longer before speaking to you again. Is that all right?"

Jim leads me down our usual route to the park. My breath's frosting in the air, and I know the night at work is going to feel extra long now, because all I'll be waiting for is morning.

Black hair. Grey eyes. Dark coat. Big, ridiculously fluffy dog. Slim hands, wrapped around a cup of coffee.

"Is this going to be a pattern?" I ask. "Us calling each other whenever we can? 'Cos I'd be all right with that. Just so you know."

Baz laughs and I crunch over leaves on the path, passing under lamplight into the approaching night.

"Yes, I'd say there's a chance of it becoming a pattern."

"Well, good. Me and Jim are out for a quick walk. He's fine with it, too."

"Oh, really? Are you going to the park?"

"Yeah, just for ten minutes, then I'll take him home and go to work. Absolutely no swimming. What are you doing tonight?"

I hear barking in the distance, and Jim does what Jim usually does when he's being a pillock, and yanks the lead out of my hand. He goes darting up the path, ignoring my shouts.

"Sorry! My bloody dog ran off again."

"That seems to be another of your patterns, Simon."

"I _know_ , right? He's a good dog, really - just a bit of a prat sometimes. I don't know _what_ he's so excited about."

"I do."

I look up from my shoes and see a black, fluffy shape in the middle of the path, caught in a never-ending game of chase-the-tail with Jim Moriarty.

Behind them is a man, looking all windswept and annoyingly handsome, like he has in every single one of my daydreams since first seeing him here in the summer.

"Baz," I say stupidly. (I should end the call now but I've forgotten how my hands work.)

"Simon."

He walks to me, swerving around the tangled dogs, footprints and paw prints forming patterns on the path behind him.


End file.
